


the things insomnia causes

by aph_danish



Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Age Regression/De-Aging, Asthma, Eventual Steve Rogers/Bucky Barnes, Friendship, M/M, Memory Loss, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Pseudoscience, Romance, Romantic Friendship, Serum Reversal, Skinny!Steve, Skinny!Steve/Winter Soldier, Smoking, Tony Being Tony, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-25
Updated: 2017-01-29
Packaged: 2018-03-15 04:39:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3433868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aph_danish/pseuds/aph_danish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tony Stark needs physical proof of just how small Steve Rogers was before the serum. So he does it, of course. Turns out, seventeen year old Steve if a whole lot more open about his feelings than twenty-seven year old Steve. And maybe that just what Bucky needs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Tony Stark knows all the stories of Steven Rogers before the serum. Everyone knows those stories. Everyone’s seen the displays at the Smithsonian, the photos and the information of when Steve was 5’4 and 95 pounds. But for Tony, the photographs and the bare information just isn’t enough. He has to see it for himself. Even though his own father was there at the site when Steve changed from Steve to Steve, and Tony has read all of his father’s recollections of the incident, right down to how firm Steve’s new abdominal muscles were under his hands when before you could count every individual rib easily, Tony needs proof. Physical proof. So of course he sets out to get physical proof. And the only way he can think of gaining this evidence is to turn Steve back to his tiny, sickly, pre-serum self. 

Insomnia can be helpful sometimes, Tony thinks. It’s taken him only two weeks of sleepless nights to figure out something that can turn back the hands of time without being harmful to their Captain. If his calculations are right, which they normally always are, then the effects should only last a day or so. Hopefully. Tony always tells people to never take his word for anything. This is one of those times. 

Everyone in the Tower knows that Steve is up with sun, going for his fifteen mile run every morning, coming back like he’s simply walked out to get the mail. Everyone else is normally up by that point, in the kitchen for breakfast. Steve makes himself a cup of coffee; black, one sugar. Tony likes the little sachets of sugar, because they’re easier and he’s lazy. Tony took this into account and cleverly formulates his time-turning science magic product to look like sugar. JARVIS tells him it should taste pretty close to it as well, but Tony isn’t going to test it (obviously), and can only hope that it’s close enough to sugar tasting and that Steve doesn’t notice it. 

Because someone else always has the box of sugar sachets with them - normally Clint, and Tony accuses him of sucrology, to which he always defensively says ‘no’, so Tony thinks his point is proven - Steve asks to be handed his little bag of sugar. Tony makes sure that morning that he has the sugar box, so it isn’t suspicious when he hands Steve the time-turning science magic product bag (he really needs to come up with a name for it). Steve doesn’t even look at it when he rips it open and dumps it into his coffee, stirring the liquid a few times before lifting his cup to his mouth and drinking half of it in one go. He needs to drink all of it before it takes effect, so Tony sighs and settles into spreading butter over his toast. Over the course of breakfast, Steve finishes his cup of coffee, and Tony sighs again and he waits for it to kick in. Several minutes later there is a sound of distress from America’s golden boy. 

“What is it?” Natasha asks, hands already moving to the weapons hidden over her body. 

“I-” Steve says eloquently, looking around. “Everything’s dulled. Colours.” Tony understands this to be Steve’s colour-blindness coming in - tritanopia, he has, where the spectrum is red, white, blue and black (Tony couldn’t help but snort when he read that bit of information. How patriotic. He also learnt he wasn’t born with it, but acquired it through head trauma, which worried Tony a bit). Of course, at that moment, their latest acquired assassin (Tony thinks they’re starting to collect them) comes down the stairs and is immediately at Steve’s side. 

“Steve,” Barnes says, looking at his best friend worriedly. It makes Tony want to gag. “JARVIS said something was wrong.” Steve looks up to Bucky and frowns, rubbing his chest. 

“My colour-blindness is back,” he said, “and chest pains.” His breathing starts to grow wheezy, and it’s clear Bucky is starting to panic. Before he can do anything though, Steve’s passed out, slumping forward onto the bench. Everyone in the room winces as his body starts to reshape itself; it’s silent, but it looks so strange. Tony can’t help but do a little internal jig at the fact that it worked, though he keeps the concerned look plastered on his face. Ten minutes later and Steve Rogers is still sitting in his chair, just a whole lot smaller. He blinks open his eyes - they look huge on his small, gaunt face - and sits up, looking around. He was in clothes too tight just before, and now he’s swimming in them. He takes everything in with something akin to shock, and shit, Tony did not factor memory loss into this equation. 

“This ain’t 1935,” he says, and for some reason, his voice - still the same as before, or after, depending on how you look at it - shocks Tony. You wouldn’t expect such a deep voice from such a small body. He looks around at everyone. “Who are you?” he asks, and it’s to the room in general. He turns to look at Bucky when the man places a hand on his bony shoulder. 

“Bucky?” he asks, peering up at him. “What happened to you? Where am I? Is this some kind of joke?” Bucky glares at Tony, and so, naturally, Tony shrinks back a little. The assassin’s face softens as he looks back to Steve. 

“Do you remember anything?” he asks, and it’s some kind of sick parody, to Steve asking Bucky the same thing several weeks after he turned himself in and was living in the Tower, just under a year ago. 

Steve chewed his lip. “Last thing I remember was you goin’ on a date with Mary-Ann from down the street, and you came home drunk as shit and passed out on the floor.” Bucky quirks a little smile at that, so it must be something that he remembered, or has a vague notion of it floating around in his brain. But then he pauses, and tilts his head. 

“I was eighteen, then. And you said 1935…” Bucky shuffles around so he’s standing more in front of Steve, peering at his face. “You’re seventeen.”

Steve blinks like he thinks Bucky is stupid for only just realising. “Yeah. Turned seventeen three weeks ago, ‘member? You took me to Coney Island and we watched the fireworks and pretended they was for me.” 

There’s a round of ‘aww’s from the crew, and Bucky looks up and glares at them, though there’s something fond in his calculating gaze. “I can confirm this isn’t 1935,” he said, as if it wasn’t already obvious. Tony can understand laying it all out flat for the young Steve before them. And God, he really is tiny. His arms and hands look to be all skin and bones. His cheekbones look just about ready to pierce through the pale, thin skin of his face. Steve tilts his head as Bucky speaks, curious for more information. “It’s 2014.” That startles Steve, and Tony guesses it would  
startle anyone who’s suddenly thrust seventy-nine years into the future, surrounded by unknown people and futuristic objects, and a best friend who looks older, more worn, and suddenly has a robotic arm. He wheezes, and Bucky’s quickly slipping his hand into Steve’s pocket and pulling out a thin, white stick and a bulky lighter. He shoves the stick - asthma cigarette, Tony realises - in between Steve’s lips and lights it. 

“He always carries them. Habit,” he says in answer to the unspoken question as Steve takes a drag from the cigarette and focuses on calming his breathing. Bucky gently rubs his back, his face a blank mask but panic clear in his body posture. He’s always been an open book when it comes to Steve. The smoke from the cigarette smells pretty awful, and Tony knows he should run and get an inhaler, because those things are a load of baloney, but Steve starts to calm down after some time, drawing in lungfuls of strange herb smoke from his cigarette, his breathing calming. He relaxes under Bucky’s hand after several long minutes and blinks up at him. 

“How did I get here?”


	2. Chapter 2

A pained expression crosses Bucky’s face at Steve’s question, and Tony finds five pairs of eyes suddenly fixed on him.

“Explain, Stark,” Bucky barks, and Steve’s huge blue eyes turn to look at him as well, confused and just a little bit scared, though he’s putting on a damn good brave face. Tony can tell why the young Barnes took a shine to the kid. Tony says nothing for a while, trying to gather words that normally come so easily to him. He blames Bucky’s scary ‘I’m going to fuck your shit up unless you fix it now’ look.

“Well,” he says slowly, drawing out the word. He picks up his somewhat cold toast and takes a bite. Bucky’s glare increases by about fifty degrees. Tony swallows loudly. “Well,” he says again, and hurries on before Bucky can throw a knife or maybe even the bulky lighter at him. “I’ve always admired Steve. I think everyone has.” In the background, Thor nods and smiles. “But all anyone knows now is Captain America Steve. And yeah, he’s a fantastic guy. I wouldn’t switch him for the world. But tiny pre-Cap Steve? I wanted to see him, too. I needed proof that my father and Doctor Erskine actually managed to create a super soldier. Don’t get me wrong, I believe the facts and the photos and everything. I just, y’know... wanted to see for myself.” His explanation sounds lame to his own ears and he gives a small shrug and shoves a little more toast in his mouth. By a little, he means most of the slice.

Bucky just keeps glaring at Tony until Steve gently tugs his sleeve. “Calm down, Buck,” he says. “I’m fine, aren’t I? I mean, whatever he did to me hasn’t had any bad effects that I can tell.”

“He de-aged you for his own benefit,” Bucky hisses, practically scooping the tiny teenager into his arms and shielding him from Tony’s view with his body. “We don’t know how long this will last, what effects it may have.” Tony notes the way Steve has his head tilted so his right ear is more upwards to catch Bucky’s words easier. He’s already designing hearing aids in his head when he remembers this all temporary.

“It should last about twenty four hours,” he says, mouth still full of toast. Bucky just glares at him again and walks away, carrying Steve. For all Steve is normally stubborn as hell about doing things himself, he sure doesn’t mind being carried by the assassin. Instead, he snuggles into him, making a small happy sound, his cheeks and ears flushed pink. Tony notes that, too. The rest of the crew watches them walk away, until they’re out of sight.

“Well, you sure fucked up,” Clint says with a laugh as he gets up on the table pushes in the air vent before climbing in.

“Asshole,” Tony mutters, and the last thing he hears is a muffled ‘caw, caw’ before the vent is put back in place. _Stupid birds and their nesting places_ , Tony thinks as he walks back to his lab, wondering just how much Bucky is going to thrash him when he gets the chance. He’ll probably be non-existent, which would suck, because then who would look after the team’s tech and uniform designs and everything? No one else is smart enough to take on that role. Tony smirks to himself in a mirror he walks past, and flips the roof off when he hears JARVIS sigh. Even his AI is a smug asshole. Tony really needs to look into cutting down on some of the things JARVIS can manage. Maybe he’ll go do that now…

* * *

Bucky sets Steve down in the elevator, and the kid sighs but stands on his own two feet, though he sticks close to Bucky. He can hear Steve’s wheezy breathing, his irregular heartbeat. The ride to their shared floor is quick, and Bucky leads Steve out and to the living room. “Sit,” he says, gently pressing Steve down onto the couch. “I’ll go try find something that might fit you a little better.” He ruffles Steve’s blond hair and walks away. Smaller clothes means raiding Natasha’s closet, and Bucky may be an ex-assassin, but so is the redhead. He sighs as he makes his way to floor, and decides the best course of action is to just ask. He knocks on her door and waits.

“Clothes?” Natasha says when she opens the door, some already in her hands. Bucky just nods and takes them with a quiet thank you before striding away and back to Steve.

He drops them onto the couch beside Steve and looks at the smaller man. “They’re from Natasha, the redhead. Should fit you better, punk.” Steve just nods and stands, stripping himself of his formerly too small clothing. The fact that Steve didn’t go somewhere private to change isn’t a shock to Bucky; they’ve seen each other naked more times than he can even recall. He just sits down and switches on the television while he waits, attention more on Steve than the news reporter, not that his best friend needs to know that.

“Better?” Steve asks when he’s dressed, and Bucky looks to him and nods, the ghost of a smile quirking his lips.

“Yeah, much better.” The skinny jeans are a little long and not really skinny, but at least they’re not falling down so much. The plain tee hangs off one of Steve’s thin shoulders, and he pushes it back up with a huff. The ghost smile becomes a little more solid. “How you feelin’?”

Steve was silent a while before saying, “out of place.” Bucky can understand. He really can.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> what is this?? another chapter?? incredible! i'm so sorry it's been so long since i last updated and i honestly have no excuses, but i had sudden inspiration after staring at my wall for hours on end and threw up this rushed, horrid chapter. hopefully i've got the ball rolling for me to continue this but i won't make any promises! i'll probably go back and fix up this chapter at a later date but i hope it'll do for now. thank you for your patience and for reading my work *:･ﾟ✧  
> (also i'm really bad at keeping the same tense lately so i apologise if it's super confusing;;)

Bucky’s not entirely sure how he’s meant to wait out the twenty-four hours until Steve is himself again. It’s hard to focus on much – there’s a sudden onslaught of memories that Steve’s smaller body has triggered. But he’s gotten used to this overwhelming feeling, and he’s gotten using to letting himself slow down, accept the intake, and then shuffle his way through them, trying to piece them into what he already has floating about in his head. He’s sitting on the couch and letting this happen, the television on for background noise, when he feels the cushions shift slightly as Steve settles himself down and gets comfortable.

“Tell me how ya got this,” Steve requests quietly, his long, thin fingers brushing over the dull metal of Bucky’s prosthetic. His eyes are curious, his face open and welcoming. Bucky’s heart throbs. Steve often has the exact same expression on his new face, but there’s just something about seeing it on the kid sets of sparks in sections of his memories, of times Bucky sometimes wishes he could go back to, despite knowing how beneficial the future is to the both of them.

“What do you want to know?” Bucky asks. He sets aside the task of sorting out his thoughts to focus on the now smaller man, and he can’t help but notice how soft Steve’s pink lips look, and how they looked even softer and pinker that time they had cotton candy at Coney Island in the summer of ‘37, which Bucky idly thinks this Steve hasn’t lived yet. Steve’s words snap him out of it before he can lean in, thankfully.

“When did it happen? ‘Cause if this is 2014, and you’re still alive, then you’re a hell of a lot older than ya look.”

Bucky laughed. “You can say that again,” he said, voice raspy with amusement and adoration for the man beside him that he’s always managed to hold on to, even with all that Hydra has put him through in the last near century. He scrubbed his flesh and bone hand over his face, trying to figure out just what to say to Steve. It felt wrong to lie to him, as it always had. Bucky hated lying to his best friend, though he couldn’t deny that he had at times, when he felt it was for the best. “It’s a long story.” He looked down at his prosthetic, and wiggled the metallic fingers. The joints moved smoothly, soundlessly. Stark really had done a good job fixing it up for him.

“I lost this arm in the war,” he said, slowly, hesitantly. “In 1945. I was presumed dead by my regiment.” By you, a voice hissed in the back of his mind, but he hurriedly shoved it back down. This wasn’t Steve’s fault. No matter what Hydra had tried to make him believe, Bucky would never think that his time as the Winter Soldier was his friend’s fault. He took in a slow breath as he curled his fingers again, before blinking when Steve’s smaller hand settling in his, interlocking their fingers.

“I really wanna know,” Steve says, looking up at him. His azure blue eyes are earnest and worried, but Bucky can see the adoration in them. His heart aches, and he can’t tell if it’s good or bad. “But I can tell it’s hard for ya. So don’t push yourself. Don’t ever wanna see you achin’, Buck.” He can feel the faint pressure in his hand as Steve squeezed it gently. Bucky just looks at him, and then before he can ever really register his own movements – so rare for him, when he’s spent decades calculating everything, down to his breathing and blinking – he’s wrapped the blond up in a tight embrace, pressing his face into the crook of his neck and breathing him in.

Steve is clearly surprised, and he wheezes slightly, but he manages to get his arms free to wrap them around Bucky in return. “It’s okay,” he mumbled in the other’s broad chest, “it’s gonna be okay. We always get through everything together, Buck. And even if we’re both outta the right time right now, we still got each other. Just like it’s always meant to be.” And Bucky is incredibly ashamed but he’s crying, tears running hot and thick down his cheeks to soak into Steve’s borrowed shirt. He hasn’t let himself cry in a while, but it feels damn good to do it now, wrapped up in the arms of the man who’s the most important to him.

“Yeah, we’ll be okay,” he agreed, voice trembling now. He let out an awkward laugh and squeezed Steve closer. “We’ve gotten through so much before together, Stevie, we’ll get through this now.” And he knows it’s true. Sometimes it’s hard to believe, but right now, with Steve small and fragile but just as full of fire as he’s always been, Bucky knows he can believe those words.

“I love you, Bucky,” Steve says quietly, and for a second Bucky is almost certain he’s merely hearing things. “I always will. No matter what. Even if you looked as old as you really are.” He lets out a quiet laugh. “’til the end of the line, right?”

Bucky lets out a strange sob and nods vehemently. He’s pulled Steve onto his lap now and he’s almost certain that if he held the poor man any tighter he might just crack one of his fragile, bird-like ribs, but he doesn’t think he could let go even if he tried to. His declaration of love is ringing in his ears; Bucky can't remember the last time someone told him they love him and he didn't doubt it. It's a foreign feeling, but his chest feels warm and full and he wants to experience this feeling again and again. “I love you too, Stevie,” he replies earnestly, words pressed into the crook of his thin neck, against the somewhat unsteady throb of his pulse under pale skin, “’til the end of the line.”


End file.
